


Everything I Wished That It Would Be

by saradise48



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 2015 World Juniors, Alternate Universe - College/University, As in Connor chose to go to BU instead of the OHL, Dylan's still in Erie, M/M, Team Canada, WJC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-16
Updated: 2017-04-16
Packaged: 2018-10-14 15:25:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10539237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saradise48/pseuds/saradise48
Summary: And Eriewasgreat. On most days. Sometimes it felt like something—someone—was almost missing. Like there was always someone else meant to be there with him to celebrate when he scored, someone who could be better than him at consoling the team through a bad loss. Dylan had the C on his chest, but it never felt like it quite belonged where it sat.Still, Dylan managed his way through the first two months of the season without issue. He was crushing it on the ice, he had almost as many points in just fourteen games as he did all of last season. And even though he had missed out on the summer evaluation camp, his name had joined the list of others who were speculated to be invited at the end of the month to the final selection camp for Canada’s world junior team, despite no one being officially named by the coaches yet.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Dates are dumb because it's the _2015_ WJC, but all the news articles I needed all had to be from _2014_ but anyway this is basically my WJC au where Connor and Dylan didn't play together (Connor made the decision to go to BU instead of the OHL) at Erie and got to go to the WJCs together instead
> 
> Also I couldn't write a fic with Connor and Dylan and not include the all-knowing Mitch who sees McStrome coming from a mile away so he's here too

Dylan liked it in Erie. Everyone doubted it at some point, but it didn’t matter. He had Brinksy with him and that was enough most days. Sure he didn’t produce the same way he had hoped last season, but it was a new year, a new chance in his draft year to get everyone’s attention in the league before the summer. 

And Erie _was_ great. On most days. Sometimes it felt like something— _someone_ —was almost missing. Like there was always someone else meant to be there with him to celebrate when he scored, someone who could be better than him at consoling the team through a bad loss. Dylan had the C on his chest, but it never felt like it quite belonged where it sat.

Still, Dylan managed his way through the first two months of the season without issue. He was crushing it on the ice, he had almost as many points in just fourteen games as he did all of last season. And even though he had missed out on the summer evaluation camp, his name had joined the list of others who were speculated to be invited at the end of the month to the final selection camp for Canada’s world junior team, despite no one being officially named by the coaches yet. 

Of course though, every year, there was always one or two who everyone just knew would be on that final list for the tournament. This year, that name was Connor McDavid. Dylan had heard of him, obviously. It was hard not to when he was the one tearing up the NCAA with Jack Eichel and co. at Boston University. Dylan knew McDavid had been considering the OHL before, but had changed his mind for the college track at the last second instead, fast tracking his education to get there a year early. He couldn’t help but wonder what could have been. 

“Shit, Stromer, look at this,” Brinksy interjected as Dylan was explaining a math problem to Taylor across the table they had claimed in the library for the morning. 

Alex pushed his phone across the table to sit in front of Dylan and when he looked down at it, he saw a video playing. On the screen, a fight from the last night’s BU v. BC game was playing, and when Dylan looked closer, he could see in the middle of the skirmish was #97, McDavid. “They said he broke his hand, might end up missing world juniors if it doesn’t heal in time,” Alex continued, taking his phone back when the video ended with McDavid skating off the ice, cradling his hand.

“Damn,” Dylan replied halfheartedly, already turning back to Taylor across from him and the problem which still sat unfinished. Sure, it was a tough break for McDavid, but that wasn’t Dylan’s issue to deal with. If McDavid missed world juniors in his draft year because of some dumb rivalry Dylan didn’t understand, that was his prerogative. And Dylan couldn’t help but think _one more potential open spot_ as he worked Taylor through his math. “Maybe it’ll give us normal people an actual chance to make the team.”

Alex laughed, “Right, like you weren’t already a given.” Dylan shrugged, not looking up from the paper, though he had stopped writing. “Stromer,” Alex said. “Stromer, don’t pull that self-deprecating crap right now. You’re gonna make the team. So shut up,” he smiled, punching Dylan on the shoulder before getting up and gathering his stuff. “I’ll see you guys later.”

“How long is McDavid supposed to be out?” Taylor finally spoke up. 

“If they’re threatening no world juniors, six weeks, I guess. He won’t be able to go to camp, either, then. Sucks for him.”

Taylor smirked. “No sympathy, huh?” Dylan only shook his head before the bell rang to send them to first period. 

-

Dylan got the call that sent him to Canada’s selection camp two days before it was officially announced, almost a month later. Mitch called him, too, later that day, yelling about plans to hang out when they got back to Toronto. 

“It’s gonna be great, Stromer. We’re gonna kill it and make it to Montreal, just watch.”

“Don’t talk like that,” Dylan cut in.

“Stromer. It’s _Canada’s game_ shut up with your stupid superstitions,” Mitch replied, not missing a beat. 

Dylan shook his head even if Mitch couldn’t see him, flopping down on his bed in his billet house. “McDavid could still come back, and there’s always one guy that comes out of left field and makes the team. None of the roster is a given.”

“I will drive to Erie just to punch you in the face if it’ll get you to shut up.”

Dylan rolled his eyes, “Fine, fine. I’m done.”

Mitch hummed happily, and picked right back up on their conversation, going over the list of guys that had been announced with Dylan. “Montreal is gonna be a fucking blast, dude, just watch,” Mitch insisted once again before Dylan got fed up with him enough to hang up. A minute later he got a text from Mitch that read _luv u <3._

 _Fuck u,_ he sent back, and then _ill see u next week._

-

The week before camp flew by, and before Dylan knew it, he was being dropped off in Pittsburgh by his billets at the airport for his flight to Toronto two days before camp actually started up. Mitch was idling in the pick ups line once he got his bags, and then they were off to the Strome house where his parents were waiting for them. 

As great as it was to be back home with his parents and Matt, camp took up the majority of his time the next few days. It started as a whirlwind of introductions to guys he vaguely remembered having played against in the past or even this season, but he mostly tried to stick by Mitch as much as possible. He was most comfortable with him at his side, and coach must have picked up on it because they were put on a line together with Crouse almost immediately. 

After they had finished the first set of drills, Dylan noticed out of the corner of his eye a bright yellow no-contact jersey appear on the bench. That would be McDavid, then. Mitch stopped talking when he noticed what Dylan was looking at, as did most of the other forwards nearby when McDavid stepped onto the ice to talk with Coach Groulx before he joined the rest of them. 

Sure, Dylan had seen him play a few times with BC (or was it BU? Dylan could never remember the difference even though if he brought it up he would probably get drop kicked by Eichel into next year) but _this_ was the prodigy everyone was jizzing in their pants over? He looked so young behind the cage, and Dylan remembered belatedly that they were only a few months apart in age when he reached up to adjust his own. Still, he failed to realize what was so special about him. 

He was mishandling the puck and shooting it wide almost every time he tried. And yeah, that probably had to do with his hand, but Dylan couldn’t help but feel bitter that his roster spot was uncertain because of this asshole who was clearly in over his head here. 

The worst part was McDavid kept apologizing for every fuck up he had. It was such stereotypical Canadian attitude and Dylan wanted to hate him for everything he had done today but McDavid made it so difficult with every sorry that got tossed around. 

But then, oh Dylan was so wrong, when McDavid managed to wire a slap shot high glove side on Comrie, an absolute beauty of a goal that got the attention of all the coaches on the ice as they huddled together to discuss. “One less spot for us,” Dylan mumbled as he glided past Mitch afterwards. McDavid had a half healed hand and he was still better than most of the guys here. Dylan looked on blankly at the drills going on around him before his turn, already steeling himself for the call into Groulx’s office at the end of camp which would send him back to Erie. 

-

The second day wasn’t much better for Dylan’s self-confidence, no matter how many times Mitch told him to shut up already and prove to the coaches he deserved a spot. They had split him and Mitch up to try other combinations, but nothing Dylan did was working the same way it seemed like it was working for the rest of the guys. 

“Strome?” he heard from behind him. Groulx was calling him over, standing off to the side by the benches with McDavid and Petan. 

“Yeah, coach?” he asked, skating over and stopping between him and McDavid.

“We’re gonna try you with McDavid and Petan for a while, run a few drills, see how it works. Sound good?” It wasn’t a question coach was looking for an answer for, but Dylan nodded anyway, following the other two guys to one half of the ice. And if Dylan thought it was hard to hate McDavid before, fuck, it had just gotten so much worse, because the only way Dylan could describe the way he and McDavid clicked was magic. 

By the second run, Dylan knew exactly what McDavid was trying to do, where he was trying to go and how he could get the puck to him and into the net. It was absolutely electric, and Dylan couldn’t help but look at the coaches after the third run to see them all just as shocked as the other guys, including McDavid. When the whistle finally blew, Dylan huddled with McDavid and Petan, getting a tap on the helmet and a smile each before they broke off to head back to the locker rooms, finished for the day. 

Once Mitch and Dylan had showered and changed, they made plans to go out to lunch with Domi. Before they left, Dylan noticed McDavid hanging back, struggling to unwrap the tape from his sticks with his hand back in a protective brace. “Hey, guys, I’m gonna stay back,” Dylan called, jerking his thumb in McDavid’s direction. “We’ll catch up, though.” Mitch only rolled his eyes with a smirk while the other guys shrugged before walking out of the room. “Here,” Dylan said quietly once he approached McDavid, holding his hand out for the stick. 

McDavid looked up with a huff, but his face softened when he realized he wasn’t a trainer. He handed over the stick easily, and sagged against the back of the stall. “You could have gone with the others, I would have gotten it eventually,” McDavid finally said once Dylan moved onto the next stick. 

“You looked like you needed a break. Don’t worry about it, McDavid.”

He flinched, “Just call me Connor.”

Dylan paused, looking up from the ball of tape in his hand. “Right,” he handed back the second stick and lobbed the ball of tape at the garbage can, missing by a few feet. McDav— _Connor_ —snorted as Dylan got up with a groan to pick it up. “We’re probably only a few minutes behind the guys, you wanna come to lunch?”

“Uh, yeah. Sure, I’d like that,” Connor said unsurely, but still smiling. Thankfully, he had already showered and changed, too, so they left immediately, and caught the others before they had ordered their food. 

Dylan pushed Mitch farther into his side of the booth to make room for himself and Connor, and settled comfortably, his arm across the back of the booth behind Mitch. 

“What was that stuff with you guys back at the rink?” Max asked almost immediately, amazement in his eyes. Dylan shrugged, a little stunned and turned to Connor.

“I don’t really know, honestly,” Connor said. Dylan shot him a grateful look. “I haven’t ever had that kind of chemistry with someone before, but it just felt right, you know?”

Max nodded, saying something else that Dylan wasn’t paying attention to because the same smirk from the locker room had reappeared on Mitch’s face. Dylan elbowed him sharply in the side with a glare, “Keep your mouth shut if you don’t wanna be sent home early with an injury.”

-

Dylan headed back to Erie at the end of camp much more hopeful than he had been going in. The final day had been the same as the end of the second, exploring his dynamic with Connor on the ice while the coaches cycled through the other left wingers to see who fit best with them. And Dylan had headed to the airport with his parents with a promising smile from coach and an actual promise from Connor. To get him to Montreal, like it was his decision in the first place, like he could make Dylan good enough by sheer force of will. 

If Dylan watched the BU game the next week and maybe spent the rest of the night watching Connor’s old highlight reel goals, well, only Mitch will ever find out about that. 

When rosters were announced another week later, the first call he got was just Mitch yelling nonsensically into the phone, ecstatic that they both made it onto the final roster. Dylan hung up on him when he got the call from his parents, and his brothers’ group skype call followed shortly after. After he had hung up with Ryan and Matt, there was a little red circle on his messenger app, letting him know he had almost fifty unread texts. Scrolling through his text threads, he saw that half of them were from Mitch, growing more and more unintelligible as they went on. Dylan sent back the laughing emoji and moved on. 

At the end of his threads were two last unread messages from an unknown number. Dylan opened it and realized it was from Connor, _hey, i got ur # from mitch,_ the first read, and _told u_ , followed right after. 

_yea u did see u in mtl._

-

Mitch ambushed Dylan, practically tackling him to the ground by baggage claim when he got to Montreal from Pittsburgh on the twenty second, the day before the final exhibition game. They got dirty looks from the old couple who had sat in the row in front of Dylan on the ride there, but Mitch just stared right back until they looked away. 

“Freak,” Dylan mumbled, grinning as he went to get his hockey bag and suitcase from the carousel, only it sounded more fond than anything and when he came back, Mitch was grinning. 

“You love me,” Mitch replied, pressing a smacking kiss to Dylan’s cheek. But Dylan wasn’t paying attention, because he _swore_ that was Connor’s Jays hat from camp, bobbing along in the crowd and tugged down low to cover his eyes the same way this guy was doing as he waited for his bags at another carousel farther down. “Pay attention to me,” Mitch practically whined as Dylan pulled out his phone and opened his texts to Connor. _did u just get 2 mtl?_

 _yea howd u kno?_ was the reply a few second later. The guy was looking around now, his phone in his hands, and a clearly confused expression on his face that Dylan could see from twenty yards away. 

_carousel 12,_ Dylan sent back. Connor finally found where Dylan and Mitch were standing, waving enthusiastically. “Grab your shit,” Dylan said, only looking away from Connor to reach for the handle of his bag, slinging it over his shoulder. 

Objectively, Dylan knew how dumb he probably looked. His ratty old hockey bag that was literally held together on one side by duct tape was slung over his shoulder, causing him to sag a little to the left, and every few steps, his suitcase would hit him in the back of the heels and his sticks— _shit_ his sticks were still on the carousel. “Fuck, Mitch, I gotta go back, my sticks-” Dylan called, already turning around.

Finally, once Dylan had everything, he managed to make his way over to where Connor and now Mitch were waiting, looking similar to Dylan, weighed down by their gear and street clothes packed away in their bags. “Hey,” he smiled when Connor looked at up at him. 

Connor grinned, “You ready, Stromer?”

“Yeah, yeah. Come on.”

-

They absolutely _demolished_ Switzerland, 6-0 in the final exhibition game. Dylan had gotten an assist on Ritchie’s goal, along with Connor, and while it wasn’t a goal, it was something to prove the coaches had made the right decision to keep him. 

The tone in the locker room after was light, joking, compared to the heaviness Dylan had felt back in Toronto last month, with everyone weighed down with the expectation to make the team. Even so, the coaches had made it one of the hardest games Dylan had run in a while, and by the end, all he wanted was food and a nap.

Dylan and Mitch went out to dinner afterwards back at the hotel, Connor insisting they go on ahead without him when he got called into a captains meeting with coach along with Sam and Curtis. The two crashed hard after food, sprawling sideways on Mitch’s bed in the room he was sharing with Connor, of all people, Sportscentre on in the background as they dozed. Dylan gave a brief thought to how lucky Mitch was while Dylan ended up paired with Virtanen. 

The door opened and shut quietly about an hour later (at least Dylan thought, he really couldn’t be sure) and then Connor was in his line of sight as he came around to sit on his bed, closest to the window on the far wall. Dylan watched idly as Connor methodically peeled out of the heavy layers required by a Montreal winter, then headed for the bathroom.

Mitch only stirred once the water for the shower turned on a minute later. “Freak thinks it’s necessary to shower eleven times a day for whatever reason. No matter what time it is,” he grumbled, half muffled by his pillow when he flopped back down into it midway through his sentence. 

Dylan kicked at Mitch’s torso to get him to be quiet, and then almost instantly fell back asleep. 

-

“Hey. Stromer, Marns, get up,” Dylan heard Connor distantly, caught in that place between sleep and awake where he was conscious of his surroundings but not ready to get up yet. “Guys, come on, actually get into bed and go to sleep, the way you’re laying now is gonna kill your backs in the morning.”

“No, Mom. Five more minutes,” Mitch whined, tucking his face in between Dylan’s shoulder blades. Connor huffed and poked repeatedly at Dylan’s side where his shirt had ridden up while he was out. 

Dylan’s arm shot up, promptly nailing Connor in the thigh and causing him to double over with a groan. That got Dylan’s attention, and he pushed himself up onto one elbow, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with the other and effectively shoving Mitch off of him. “Shit, Davo, are you okay?”

“Who the fuck is Davo?” Mitch replied before Connor could. He had already rolled back to hug one of the pillows that he had probably flung away from him in his sleep. 

Connor waved Dylan off when he offered to help, dropping back onto his own bed. Dylan kept a wary eye on him before he realized Connor was laughing. “Fuck you! I thought I was gonna have to explain to Groulx why his superstar couldn’t fucking play against Slovakia or something!”

“I’m fine Stromer, really.”

“Alright, alright, I’m up. What do you assholes want?” Mitch cut in, finally sitting up. His hair was an absolute wreck, so Dylan at least tried to smooth down the bits that were standing straight up in the back. Mitch grinned at him, sickly sweet, but when Dylan looked back, he noticed Connor had schooled his expression into what Dylan had come to know as his media smile: obviously plastered on, his face otherwise blank. He snapped out of it once he realized Dylan and Mitch were both staring at him. 

“I’m gonna head back to my room,” Dylan spoke, all of a sudden awkward in a way he hadn’t been with either of them in a while. He wasn’t even sure what he had done, but there was a clear shift in the mood of the room and Dylan needed an out.

“Ok, you said Mama and Papa Strome are coming up for tomorrow, right?” Dylan nodded. “Us and a few of the other guys were gonna watch _Die Hard_ after we all had lunch and stuff with the families, you in?”

“Why not?” he shrugged, still avoiding Connor’s eye. He still didn’t know why that was his mission all of a sudden. “I’ll see you guys, then.”

“Night, Stromer.”

-

Knowing that this might be one of his last Christmases with his family while he was still young, he tried to enjoy it as much as he could. Even though they were in a hotel room in a place a few blocks down, his mom had somehow managed to bring a few of their own Christmas decorations from home and made it feel like they were back in Mississauga. 

The biggest—Dylan would argue the best—surprise of the day happened when he first got to his parents’ room early Christmas morning. Instead of seeing only Matt as he messed around on his phone while their parents watched TV like normal at home, he walked in on a wrestling match between Matt and Ryan on the pulled out sofa bed. Their mom had paused her yelling to open the door for Dylan, but once the door was shut again, all hell broke loose when Dylan got yanked into the pile of limbs by the sleeve of his jacket. 

“Boys, please?” his mom finally sighed as she sat down on the opposite chair, giving up on her yelling. All three of the Strome boys stopped their screeching and blind punches immediately. Dylan couldn’t explain why that always worked on them, he thought it probably had to do with the, “I’m not mad, just disappointed.” 

Whatever it was, it got them into line enough that their mom nodded, signaling their dad to bring out the gifts. They had all stopped giving elaborate gifts once Matt turned 15, but Dylan and his brothers always got something small to open, and in turn they made sure their parents did, too. 

Once everything was opened, Dylan was left with a sweater from his parents and a book on the zombie apocalypse from his brothers. 

“Wow, thanks guys,” he had said, flat, once he had the wrapping paper ripped half open and could see the book’s cover. 

“Are you excited about tomorrow?” Dylan’s mom asked as they all settled back on the couches. 

Dylan shrugged, “I’m trying not to think about it too much, try not to overthink everything, freak myself out, you know?” 

Ryan nodded. “The pressure’s something you get used to, baby brother,” he grinned, ruffling Dylan’s hair. He swatted his hand away and Ryan turned serious. “You’ll be fine, though.”

“It sucks you have to go to Buffalo and miss the first game,” Matt said. 

“I know, but don’t think I won’t still be watching.”

-

Getting back to Mitch and Connor’s room, Dylan was met with the door propped open with a ball of socks. It let out the noise of at least ten of the guys into the hallway and Dylan already knew they would be getting noise complaints in no time. 

“Stromer!” Mitch cheered when he noticed Dylan had appeared in the doorway. “We’re just about to start _Die Hard,_ get in here!” 

Dylan rolled his eyes jokingly, shoving Mitch away from him as he went to find a spot on Connor’s bed along with Lawson and Connor himself. Lawson was sprawled upside down on the bed, his head dangling off the end so he could talk with Curtis who sat on the floor at the foot of the bed. Connor, on the other hand, had propped himself against the headboard, and once he saw Dylan, he pat the spot next to him with a small smile. 

“How’s my favorite Strome brother?” Mitch asked over the opening credits of the movie, settled back on his own bed with Petan and Max. 

Dylan sighed dramatically, but smiled with his answer, “Matt’s good. Ryan says hi, too. _I’m_ a little offended, though.”

Mitch grinned, his signature all-tooth one. “You know I love you, Stromer.”

“That’s cute, you and Mitch,” Connor mumbled so only Dylan could hear as he settled down farther into the pillows. 

“Huh?” 

“You and Mitch? You’re together, aren’t you?”

Dylan sputtered out a laugh, dropping his head to rest on Connor’s shoulder as he caught his breath. Connor tensed, so Dylan pulled away abruptly. “Mitch? And me? Like, I love the guy but no.”

“Oh.” 

Something in Connor sounded disappointed and Dylan felt the sudden need to explain himself. “Not that—not that something like that isn’t what I’m looking for, you know? Just—not with Mitch,” he said, hoping he got his point across.

Dylan saw the tension drain from Connor. “Yeah, uh, same.” Dylan had to hide the smile behind the sleeve of his Canada sweatshirt. 

“Good to know.”

-

By the end of the movie, most of the guys who hadn’t already left had fallen asleep in several piles of limbs throughout the hotel room. As the final credits rolled, Connor looked around to find everyone else had missed the end.

Dylan wasn’t asleep, but he definitely wasn’t completely alert, which is how he would explain the way he had curled into Connor halfway through the movie and stayed that way. Connor hadn’t objected like he had last time, so Dylan didn’t see a reason to move. 

“Hey, Dyls? You awake?” Connor whispered, nudging his shoulder a little. Dylan stirred, but only nuzzled further into the space between Connor’s neck and shoulder with a groan. “Right,” Connor laughed, low. “That’s a no, then.”

“Wha-” Dylan finally managed, pressing the heel of his hand to his eyes and rolling onto his back. “How long was I out?” 

“Half an hour, maybe?” Connor replied, rolling his shoulder where Dylan’s head had just been. “I actually need to head out, though. Dinner with Jack and a couple of his friends. I just didn’t wanna ditch you while you were asleep.” Dylan nodded. “Um, did you maybe wanna come with me? I don’t really know anyone else who’s gonna be there besides Jack.”

“Oh. As great as that sounds, Mitch and I already had plans for dinner with our brothers. Sorry.”

“No, no, don’t worry about it, Stromer, I’ll manage,” Connor said, half a smile failing at deflecting the disappointment. 

“Just try not to break your hand fighting Hanifin again. We’re gonna need you tomorrow,” Dylan tried. He couldn’t help the smile in reaction to Connor’s snort. 

“I’ll try. See you later.”

-

They killed it against Slovakia, too, 8-0. The feeling of starting the tournament was great, but it sucked that with as many goals as they all had as a team, Dylan hadn’t managed to help out on any of them. It made it slightly better, though, that Connor was on the same boat as him, ending the night with six shots but no points to show for them. 

When they all got back to the locker room, Dylan stopped short of his own stall farther down the line, bumping shoulders with Connor. He looked up, offering a small smile but turning right back to his spot to start stripping out of his gear. “Davo, come on, we won.”

“I know, Stromer. It’s great,” Connor said, restrained.

“Hey, Stromer!” Max called from the other side of the locker room. Dylan turned away from Connor, but put his arm out to prevent him from going too far. “The boys are going out in a little while, you and Daver in?”

Dylan didn’t even need to look back at Connor to know his answer. “No, I think we’re both gonna pass.”

“Dylan-” 

“Look, Davo, I’m not gonna let you sit in the hotel room alone and beat yourself up about how you didn’t get a point. I’ll make you celebrate any way I can.”

Connor flushed, the color spreading all the way down his neck and disappearing under the collar of his base layer, but he didn’t protest. Instead, he nodded—albeit reluctantly—then continued on with his post-game routine. 

“You ready?” he asked twenty minutes later as he came up to Dylan’s stall. Pretty much everyone else had cleared out already, all of the guys but them joining in on the plans to go out as a group. Dylan nodded, following him out of the room.

-

“It wasn’t just that I didn’t have any points tonight, you know,” Connor said finally, following half an hour of silence where they both pretended to watch some house renovation show.

“What was it, then?” Dylan asked cautiously, putting his phone down on Mitch’s bed where he sat. 

Connor sighed. “I’m supposed to be Connor McDavid, you know?” Dylan snorted. “Shut up. I usually try not to think about it and at BU it usually works, but on the international scale like this, I really understand the kind of expectations that are put on me. Like, I’m seventeen but I’m supposed to be one of the guys who leads this team to a gold medal. It’s just a lot, I guess.”

“I guess I never thought about it like that. You always seem like you handle the pressure so well.”

“It’s the media training. Comes with the job of being projected first overall,” Connor said with an empty laugh. 

“It’s the first game, though. You’re gonna show everyone that even Connor McDavid can have slumps, but he’s still gonna come back from them, kick ass and win gold. In that order.”

“You think?”

“I know. Just like you said you wouldn’t let me not get on the team, I’m not letting you leave here without a gold medal.”

-

And Dylan was right, thank _god._ He didn’t think he would be able to face Connor after another pointless night for either of them. Instead, though, Connor finished the night against Germany after contributing to three of their four goals. One point was a goal of his own, and another was a helper on Dylan’s first goal of the tournament, too. And the feeling when they connected on a pass then got to jump into each other’s arms when they scored didn’t lessen any as the night went on. 

This time, they all went out to celebrate. The three of them, Mitch, Connor and Dylan were still only seventeen, so Max and a few of the others offered to buy for them, but Mitch was the only one who accepted. 

“Somebody’s gotta make sure no one gets lost,” Connor said in response when Max asked if he was sure. 

“Calm down McMom, I’m the captain here!” Curtis shouted from the other side of the bar. Connor flushed, played it off with a clearly uncomfortable grin. 

Dylan reached across the table they and a few others were sharing to get his attention. “Ignore them. Come on, I’ll buy you a soda.”

Connor got up, an almost grateful look on his face, and trailed Dylan on his way to the bar. “Stromer, you don’t have to worry about me, I can-”

“Ok, one: maybe I don’t wanna drink, either. And two, you act like you’re gonna be able to wrangle all twenty-something of these guys back to the hotel yourself.” 

Instead of heading back to the table, they found two open barstools and hung out there. Dylan had to admit, it was a little awkward at first, but then Connor started asking about Erie and the OHL and Dylan was off. They talked about Dylan’s time as captain and Connor’s decision between OHL and NCAA hockey, the extra work Connor did his sophomore year to get him to BU a year early. “I’d been following the OHL a little the year before I was draft eligible, just to see, you know? And, yeah, I chose BU in the end—and it’s great—but it’s crazy to think that we could have been teammates.”

It gave him a headache, to think about how what he had now in Montreal with Connor on and off the ice, he could have had all season in Erie. Sure, it felt like they had known each other that long, they’d spent so much time together since the start of the tournament, and even before. But it was nowhere near the same. 

Connor paused from his story when the bartender came to offer them their second (third?) refill of the night. “Shit—what time is it?” he asked, pulling out his phone. Dylan did the same and saw it was past one in the morning. The next thing Dylan noticed was that he had three unread texts from Mitch, the first from over an hour before. 

_were heading out, u 2 r adorbs btw dont think idk whats going on_

_have the boy back @ a reasonable hr_

_omg r u finally banging rn that better be y ur so late_

Dylan felt his face heat up as he typed a quick _no wtf r u talking abt_ out before stuffing his phone back in his pocket before Connor could see. “We should head back,” he laughed, pulling out his wallet and handing his credit card over to the bartender before Connor could even start up a protest. Once everything was paid for, they both redressed back in their winter coats. “Come on.”

-

“What the fuck were those texts last night?” were the first words out of Dylan’s mouth when he got to Mitch’s room and saw they were alone the next day. 

“You two are so damn obvious, do you realize that?” Mitch replied, not looking up from his phone as he typed furiously. “The constant heart eyes make me wanna gag.”

“I don’t-”

“Yes you do. And it’s two-sided as fuck, Stromer.”

“No way.”

“Yes way! Oh my god, Dylan, you’re not normally this dense!” Mitch practically shrieked, tossing down his phone with a dramatic huff. 

“Marns, it’s not like that. And anyway it’s a fucking tournament. After, we’ll all go back to where we came from and he’ll be in Boston and I’ll be in Erie. Even if what you’re saying is true, would it really be worth it after this week?”

Mitch deflated, picking his phone back up with a scowl. “Dylan, all I know is that as much as you looked like you wanted to murder him in his sleep when you first met during camp, you two have something. Don’t waste it.”

-

The days and game before New Year’s Eve passed in a blur of celebrations after a win and group naps in a different hotel room every afternoon or night. Dylan made a conscious effort to ignore what Mitch said and let himself enjoy what time they all had left in Montreal. Thankfully, no one else brought it up, teasing or not, and Connor and Dylan still fit together seamlessly on and off the ice. 

And then the game against the US came up, and Dylan was a ball of nerves all day leading up to the four o’clock game. Dylan’s anxiety always popped up at the worst times, he thought. It was never logical, always a quiet kind of restlessness Dylan still couldn’t figure out how to quell. Most of the time it left him uneasy and jittery, trying to drain the tension in any way he could. 

Curtis and a couple of the other guys had come up to him where he sat in his stall, his leg bouncing non-stop for the past hour, and tried to calm him down. Dylan only glared them all away. 

He was debating the effort required in getting up to start dressing for warm ups when Connor dropped down into the empty stall beside him. “Today’s gonna be fun.” Dylan sniffed, his leg still vibrating even though it had stopped shaking. He didn’t meet Connor’s eyes when he poked Dylan in the thigh. “Dyls, it’s just another game in the tournament. Big deal, it’s against the US.”

Dylan sagged back against the wall. “We’re gonna kill it out there, right?” he asked. Even he thought he sounded like a five year old, he couldn’t imagine what Connor thought of him right now, having his own kind of anxiety attack. 

“Fuck yeah, we are.” And that was what Dylan needed: just a little bit of reassurance, confirmation that, yeah, he was worrying about nothing, from someone who understood all too often how he was feeling. 

Win they did, topping the US 5-3, the eventual game winner an absolute beauty from Connor courtesy of Dylan’s tape. They had slammed into each other in the corner after, Connor pointing at Dylan until he jumped up to meet him in a hug. 

As a team, they all decided to disperse to various hotel rooms after dinner to wait for the new year. Mitch and Connor headed back to their room, Dylan joining them along with Lawson, Nic and Curtis. They all flopped down sporadically throughout the room. The third time Lawson pushed him, Curtis fell off Connor’s bed but didn’t make any move to get back up off the floor, instead using Nic’s stomach as a pillow.

Dylan had ended up laying upside down on Mitch’s bed, his feet on the pillow next to Mitch’s head where he had passed out as soon as his head hit the pillow. Every few minutes, Dylan would turn away from Sportscentre to make a face at Connor who was more and more amused every time Dylan’s face became more contorted. 

They managed to kill three hours like that, and then it was just past eleven thirty so Dylan had to shake Mitch awake. The five of them all piled onto Connor’s bed just as the countdown began, shouting along with the commentators as the TV showed the ball dropping in New York. “Happy New Year!”

 

Once they all untangled themselves, the others started clearing out, wanting to sleep more than anything. “Yeah, I think I’m gonna head out, too.”

“I’ll walk with you, I was gonna get a water from the vending machine,” Connor said, Dylan thought a little too fast, like he was waiting for Dylan to say that.

They walked down the hall to Dylan’s room, just a few down from the room with the vending machines, bumping shoulders along the way. When they got to the door, they both paused. Connor looked like he wanted to say something, and Dylan certainly wasn’t going to interrupt if he ever got to it.

“So I know this isn’t technically right at midnight but-” he started, never finished because the next thing Dylan knew, Connor was surging up to kiss him. Finally, when Dylan got over the initial shock, he was kissing Connor, too, pulling him back in with a hand on his neck. 

Dylan could feel him shaking where his other hand had found Connor’s and tangled together, and then it was over too quickly. Connor pulled away first, his face flushed and the back of his hair sticking up weird from where Dylan’s other hand had been. “Pretty sure I’ve wanted to do that since you told me you and Mitch weren’t together.” Dylan laughed, carding his fingers through Connor’s hair to smooth it down when he dropped his head onto Dylan’s shoulder. His own arms were tight around Dylan’s waist. 

“I’m glad you did.” They stood in silence for a minute, savoring the way they were pressed together as they leaned against the door to Dylan’s hotel room. They could get caught at any moment, and lights out was _technically_ probably an hour ago by now but Connor didn’t seem like he wanted to go anywhere so Dylan wasn’t going to, either. 

“We probably need to be adults for a second and talk about this though, right?” Connor said, almost reluctant. Dylan hummed.

“That can wait until after we win gold, don’t you think?” Dylan felt a smile spread across Connor’s face from where it was pressed into his neck. “For now, come on, up.” Dylan pressed another kiss to the corner of Connor’s mouth, then watched from halfway inside the room as he went back to his own room.

-

The team rode to Toronto the next day, Connor and Dylan finding a pair of seats together on the bus and tangling their hands together almost immediately under Dylan’s scarf draped across them. 

And then, all of a sudden, they had made it to the gold medal game against Russia. This was the time for Dylan to make good on his promise to Connor that felt like ages ago by now. The locker room was quiet, a little solemn, but in the tunnel out to the ice it was a madhouse of yelling and screaming about gold and leaving Toronto with a win for Canada. They were the ones Canada trusted to bring gold home and they were all determined to live up to the expectation on home ice. Dylan paused on his way out to bump helmets with Connor like that had every game since New Year’s Eve and got a smile that said _I will carry this team to a win if I have to._

Sixty minutes of hard skating and five cellies later, they had their fucking gold medals. Once Dylan literally got Mitch off his back, he went looking for Connor and found him at the bottom of a pile of captains with Curtis and Sam. He helped the three of them up, Connor was in front of him, and god, Dylan wanted to kiss him. But they had plenty of time for that. After the ceremony and a team party. For now, he was going to enjoy his time with Connor and Mitch on top of the world.

**Author's Note:**

> Connor and Dylan's tag was starting to die out so I figured it was my turn to contribute again
> 
> Title pulled from Lovebug by The Jonas Brothers because I'm still stuck in 2008


End file.
